The Last Wicked Scoundrel (12 page)

He shook his head. “But he was wearing my rings.”

“Your rings?”

He nodded. “The ones you said I can wear when I’m a man.”

She had shown the ducal rings to Whit several times because he enjoyed looking at them.

“I didn’t tell him they were mine,” Whit said quietly. “’Cuz he was so big.”

Leaning over, she pressed a kiss to his temple. “He won’t hurt you, darling. Mummy isn’t feeling well, though, so we’re not going on our outing today. You just keep drawing.”

Her legs were trembling so badly they could barely support her as she left the room. What she was considering was an impossibility, and yet it was the only thing that made any sense.

“Winnie, are you all right?” William asked.

“Hardly.” With William on her heels, she rushed down the stairs and hurried into the library, went to the cigar box where she had placed the rings after the séance, and lifted the lid. They were gone. After slamming the lid closed, she began striding toward the door. “I need to speak with Catherine. My husband either managed to manifest himself into a ghost or he was never dead to begin with.”

“T
ell me precisely what happened at Heatherwood,” Winnie demanded.

William knew that he could have saved her the journey to Claybourne’s, but it wasn’t his lie to reveal. They were in the Claybourne library, a room large enough that with the door closed, it was unlikely that any of their conversation would drift out into the hallways to be overheard by servants. They were presently all standing, Claybourne in front of his desk, his hips leaning against it, Catherine near her husband. Winnie stood before them, her hands balled into fists at her side. At least they’d stopped trembling on the journey here. He wanted to be beside her, holding her near, but she seemed determined to face this on her own, so he merely waited, his arms crossed over his chest. It was her battle.

“Why don’t we all take a seat?” Catherine asked. “I’ll ring for tea.”

“I don’t want tea,” Winnie said. “I want to know about the fire at Heatherwood. Did you actually see Avendale die in it?”

Catherine glanced over at Claybourne before returning her attention to Winnie. “Winnie, you must understand that I was terrified for you.”

“What did you do?” she asked, her voice laced with trepidation.

“Do sit,” Catherine urged.

“I don’t think I shall. I have the impression that what you are about to tell me is best taken standing.”

Good for you, William thought, admiring her backbone. Her husband had nearly broken it. He hoped she’d hang onto it when she knew the true tale.

Catherine cleared her throat. “The night he beat you to within an inch of your life, before we left your residence, we hinted to the servants that we were going to take you to Heatherwood. Instead, of course, we took you to Bill. Then Claybourne and I carried on alone to Heatherwood.”

“Avendale arrived a couple of nights later demanding that we give you to him. When he learned you weren’t there, he went into a rage, attacked Claybourne. In the scuffle a burning lamp shattered on the floor, the kerosene and flames igniting the carpet and draperies. Claybourne got the upper hand and knocked Avendale unconscious. But by the time he did, the fire was raging. While I take no pride in it, I was grateful that he didn’t have the means to escape the fire.”

“So he did die, you left him to die.”

Catherine hesitated. “Winnie—”

“For God’s sake tell her the truth,” William snapped, “because if you don’t I will.”

Her brow deeply furrowed, Winnie jerked her gaze over to him, and not averting his was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“Claybourne carried him out,” Catherine said on a rush, snagging Winnie’s attention once more.

“So he didn’t die?”

Sadly Catherine shook her head.

Winnie stumbled back a couple of steps. “But I saw the body.”

“You saw
a
body, dressed in Avendale’s clothes, wearing his rings. We arranged for Avendale to be transported to New Zealand as a criminal, under another name. We can only deduce that he either managed to escape or convinced someone to set him free.”

“You can only deduce? So you believe he’s here, wreaking havoc with my sanity, and you didn’t think I needed to know?”

Catherine nodded reluctantly. “We believed we could handle it without you being the wiser for it. You thought you were a widow—”

Winnie staggered back as though she’d taken a blow. Horrified, she looked at William and he knew she was thinking of last night, of her marriage vows, of how she’d unwittingly broken them. “I’m not a widow. My son is not the duke.”

“No one need know that,” Catherine said. “We will find him. We will set matters to right.”

“I think you all have done quite enough.” She slowly turned to face William squarely. “You robbed graves in your youth, so I assume you provided the body. Where did you get it?”

“Potter’s Field.”

“A pauper is buried in my husband’s family’s crypt?”

While it brought him no pride, he nodded.

“All along you knew he was alive. Last night—” Tears welled in her eyes. “You knew I wasn’t a widow. You knew I wasn’t . . . free.”

He had no response whatsoever to that accusation. He had known, damn him, and he’d put his needs to have her above all else.

She advanced on him. “I thought I was going mad. Things disappearing, reappearing. Sounds in the night. His scent wafting through the house, which I now realize must have been wafting in his wake. He was in my son’s room. He was in
my
room. You knew all this and yet you let me doubt my sanity.”

“You can’t blame him,” Catherine said. “When we decided to do this, we took a vow of secrecy.”

Winnie’s gaze never left his. “A vow more important than me.” Then she laughed, a sound that carried no joy. “Your attentions of late, were they all part of this elaborate scheme to hide what you’d done, to ensure I didn’t learn the truth?”

Easier to lie than to tell her the truth because at this point she wouldn’t believe him anyway. “I wanted to be certain I was there to protect you should he show himself.”

“You left me to suffer. You didn’t trust me not to betray you.”

“Winnie, you wept when I told you he was dead,” Catherine said.

“Of course I wept. With profound relief because no one would ever hurt me again.” She turned back to William. “Although I was mistaken there. How was I to know the pain of broken bones pales in comparison to that of a broken heart?”

“Winnie, it was never my intention to hurt you.”

She gave a caustic laugh. “Do you know that Avendale said those precise words after every time he hit me?”

Nothing else she could have said would have cut him as deeply.

Glancing quickly at the others, she said, “Please, I beg you all, don’t help me any further. I shall see to this matter myself.”

With her chin held high, she marched from the room, marched out of his life. He let her go because he knew he had killed whatever love she might have held for him.

He was vaguely aware of Catherine touching his arm. “What she said, it wasn’t fair.”

“It was completely fair.”

A
vendale was alive!

Winnie let that thought hover around her as she sat in his hideous overbearing library. He was alive. She wasn’t free. She wasn’t free to love William. She wasn’t free to even kiss him!

Why hadn’t Avendale walked into the residence and announced his return?

Because he wanted to toy with her, the bastard. He no doubt blamed her for what he had suffered. As much as she wished Catherine hadn’t taken such drastic measures to keep Winnie safe, she also had to admit that she was touched by her friend’s devotion. Angry to be sure, disappointed that they had thought they couldn’t trust her, but also touched.

Three years ago, she’d been too shy to stand up for herself, had lacked confidence in her abilities. Had even thought on occasion that perhaps she deserved the rough treatment. But now she understood that Avendale had no right to pommel his fists into her, no right to treat her badly. That he thought he could return and begin to torment her anew was not to be tolerated.

She considered packing her things and taking Whit someplace where they would both be safe, but she didn’t like the way it made her feel to avoid the confrontation that she was certain would be happening very soon. So she had his governess take him to a cousin’s for a few days. She gave the servants the night off. With the doors to the library open onto the terrace, she watched as evening fell, all the while feeling as though she were being watched.

Sooner or later he would face her, she was certain of it. He could have his place in Society back. But he could not have his place back in her life. Although it would create enormous scandal, she would divorce him. Or more precisely, have him divorce her for adultery. She would admit to sleeping with William Graves. Her butler could testify that he possessed a key so he could come and go as he pleased. She suspected William would confess to the wrongdoing as well. After all, he owed her.

But regardless, she was not going to stay in this marriage.

During Avendale’s time away, she had come into her own. She managed the household here in London and at the estates and she managed them well. She had put together the means to raise money for a hospital. She had spoken with architects and builders and a physician in order to discover all that was needed. They had talked with her, offered advice, took her suggestions. She no longer felt small or insignificant. She was confident she could manage her own affairs. She’d been doing quite nicely for three years.

Thanks to William Graves, who had shown her how it should be between a man and a woman. Even before his interest of late, when she had been recovering, and had first suggested the notion for a hospital, he had embraced it and never questioned her ability to carry it off. He treated her with respect and valued her.

She could not go back to flinching every time her husband spoke, to cowering when he came near, to expecting to receive a blow.

While it occurred to her that things might go better if she had all her friends surrounding her, she needed to take care of this matter on her own. They had already put their lives and reputations at risk. Her anger at them was dissipating, leaving her overwhelmed with the realization that they would risk so much for her.

When it was her battle to fight.

G
raves knew he shouldn’t be standing behind the hedgerows that lined Winnie’s back gardens, that she despised him and didn’t want him near, but he couldn’t force himself to stay away, not when there was a chance that she might be hurt, that her husband might be lurking in the shadows.

Whatever had made any of them think that their plan would be a permanent solution to Winnie’s problem, and why had they all agreed to it without consulting her? Why had he taken a role in it?

Because examining her bloody, battered, and smashed body, he had believed, truly believed, that no one should be mistreated as she had been. She had been so small, delicate, and fragile that it had never occurred to him that she would be capable of taking care of herself. Shame on him for not seeing three years ago that all she needed was to develop the confidence to stand up for herself. She had been so determined this morning to brush them off, to make it on her own.

But making it on her own, taking care of the matter, meant facing her husband, and he couldn’t allow her to face him alone. No matter how strong she thought she was, she was not strong enough for that.

He’d seen the servants leaving earlier, assumed her son had been taken elsewhere. No light escaped from any of the windows except the ones that looked out from the library. She was preparing to meet the beast in his own lair. He wondered if Avendale would respond to the invitation. Surely he had to know by now that she was aware he had returned.

Graves heard something rustling off to his left. Hefting the cudgel he’d borrowed from Jim, he cautiously stepped forward and peered—

Pain shot through the back of his skull.

Then nothing.

“H
ello, duchess.”

Winnie didn’t remember falling asleep in the chair by the fire, but the smooth ominous voice sent a tremor through her. Fighting down the fear, she opened her eyes.

A great hulk of a man was crouched before her. Avendale.

Only it wasn’t. This man bore a horrid scar from cheek to chin. He was unshaven, his hair an unruly mess. His clothing was not tailored to fit him but looked like something he might have taken from a beggar. He wore a coarse black coat. His arms were beefier, his hands rougher.

“Avendale,” she replied, grateful her voice was steady. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I think you were expecting me, but I still managed to take your lover by surprise.”

“My lover? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shifted slightly and she saw William lying on the carpet, his hands bound behind him, eyes closed, blood pooling at the back of his head. “My God, what did you do?”

She started to get up, to see how badly he was injured, but Avendale shoved her back into the chair with one meaty hand, and rose to tower over her like Lucifer ascending from hell. “Were you bedding him before I was sent away?”

“I was never unfaithful.”

“What do you call last night? I stood outside your bedchamber listening to your cries. I almost barged in to kill him then and there, to kill you both. I would have been within my rights.”

“I thought you were dead. I didn’t know what happened to you, not until today.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“I really don’t care if you do or not. Why have you been lurking about in such an unmanly fashion?” His jaw tightened and she could see the red flush of embarrassment staining his skin. If there was anything that irked him more than having his manhood questioned, she didn’t know what it was. Well, maybe being sent to the far side of the world aboard a prison ship was considerably more irritating. “Why not announce your return, why play these silly games?”